by James Kiehle
“What did you do before the war? A few days ago,” he asked. “Were you a model or something? I feel like I’ve seen you before.”
“I have no idea,” she answered in a soft voice, casually twirling the ends of her hair.
“No idea?”
“I’m a little—fuzzy—about my past,” she told him, leaning in now. “To be honest, I have amnesia. Actually, I’m so messed up, I’m surprised I even know what amnesia is.”
“What is the last thing you can remember?”
Daria laughed and shook her head. “Honestly, almost everything before meeting you is pretty much a blur. I woke up laying on a bathroom floor, then started walking and ran into Paden. I think that guy kind of snapped me out of being completely zoned. He scared me.”
“Psychopaths have that effect.”
“I guess,” she said. “Weird that my face looks familiar to you but not to me, and looking in the mirror, I could be fourteen or twenty-five.”
“Youthful looks will come in handy,” he told her, “when you get older and no one can tell your age.”
“So far, you’re the only person I know on the planet,” she said. “You’ll always be a threat.”
They laughed again. It felt good to act almost normal.
“I mean, I know things, but I can’t remember things. But then questions come up and I feel like I’m six months old, with no Life behind me. I mean, I remember that Custer killed some Indians, but I don’t know if they were from India or North Carolina.”
“Dakota,” he said. “North Dakota. And we call them Native Americans.”
“See? What about you? What did you do?”
He swirled, sipped. “Newspapers. I’ll tell you someday, when you’re bored out of your skull and we’re not playing Adam and Eve.”
“Is that what we’re doing? Playing Adam and Eve?”
“Right now we do seem to be the only two people on Earth.”
She bit her lip. “Aren’t you forgetting Glen Paden?”
“Not at all,” Russ replied. “He’s playing the part of the serpent.
31. The Kiss
Magical.
For the first time in forever, Iris Perry had a really fun night. She liked the Finnish boy, Rafe, soooo much, even though they communicated with an invented form of sign language and shared smiles and laughter at things neither quite got. She knew nothing about Finland, didn’t even know what language they spoke, but Rafe was so tall and cute and, well, aside from Arnold stealing an awkward smack from her without invitation, Iris was a virgin to liplocking with boys.
The late savior and kiss-stealer Arnold. A real contradiction.
Iris wondered, Were all boys dogs?
Now, Iris wanted to have her first real kiss here, tonight, with Rafe, while her mom was off getting hammered, probably tailed by that creepy Roger Lind. But Iris played it cool, didn’t let on her interest in the Finnish boy.
At ping-pong, a sport at which she was terrible at anyway, Rafe beat her soundly, but her clumsy attempts to return serves just made them laugh more—balls flying around the room like meteorites. All the while, Iris was wondering what real kissing was like and looking at him with a dreamy expression. She’d done it with girl friends, kissed for ‘practice’ as they called it, but Iris got little out of it, felt nothing exciting, but thought okay, at least I don’t think I’m a lesbian.
Kid stuff. This, tonight, was going to be the kiss of all first kisses.
“You wanna go on deck, see the ocean?” she asked, motioning with her hand.
Rafe looked at her, bewildered at first, then seemed to get it and smiled that shy grin of his. They walked up, reached the railing and suddenly Rafe took her hand, then both, and swung her around until his face was near hers. With a halt, go, halt, move, he finally kissed her.
And Iris kissed back, kissed with virginal teenage passion, not knowing exactly what was stirring in her, but the contact ignited an electric spark no memory could top.
Iris felt kind of funny, a little tingly, not just the lips, but everywhere. In her chest, her heart was bouncing around in there like—what? Is that how puppy love makes you feel, she wondered? Like you’re having a heart attack?
Iris kissed Rafe some more. Then more and more, until time was lost in their young embrace and the current between them seemed like it would continue forever.
•
Judy desperately said, “This isn’t fun, Roger. I want you to stop.”
“Okay, okay. Give me a minute.” Roger could only imagine what it was like for Judy, her canal now dry as sand. But really, he couldn’t quit now. Roger needed release—an orgasm might be close or it might be never, but his desire was overwhelmed by need. The need to fire the missile—detonation.
Roger kept trying to cum—harder, faster, out of control—as Judy continued to squirm, tried to disengage.
“Please don’t,” Judy said. “I’m begging.”
What began an hour ago as a quick vacation to sexual Heaven had instead gone straight to a living Hell. Endless intercourse was beginning to feel less like sex and more like torture.
“Stop, I can’t do this anymore,” Judy told him urgently. “Try and jack off or something.”
Roger paused and pulled his cock out of her. Bright red and sore, he began to stroke it jackhammer-fast while looking at Judy’s now less-than-glamourous face, as used up and sexy as a coke-whore-stripper. Roger thought the hardness might go soft, but no, the thing was still a fleshy Washington Monument. His heart began to pound. He began sweating sheets, streams of expelled liquid coming from nowhere like a sudden desert storm.
Roger took a long, deep breath. His flesh looked slick, like he’d moisturized with Vaseline. An already chiseled chest still looked tantalizing to Judy.
“Did you take a pill?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
Judy shook her head and wished there was more she could do. Roger looked sad, frustrated and bewildered.
“Next time maybe read the label?”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, I lived.” Judy sat up and wanted a cigarette. Twenty-plus years without one? It seemed like a waste. She wouldn’t die of cancer, no, but if Roger had kept it up, she might be dead from raw exhaustion.
“Do you have any cigarettes?” she asked, barely looking at him.
“No.”
Roger stopped masturbating, and surprisingly, began to cry. Judy tried to comfort him, put a hand on his shoulder, but this seemed to embarrass him and he pushed it off.
Judy said softly, “It’s okay, Roger. It’s okay.” Offering comfort—or at least humor— she put on her Mom hat and said, “Look on the bright side, it could have gone the other way and you’d be limp as a noodle.”
Roger laughed a little, wiped his eyes and looked at her, heart still racing, sweat pooling on his skin.
“This isn’t how I wanted it to be, Judy,” his eyes now looking alternately sad and angry. “I wanted it to be fun and romantic and funny—
“I know.” Judy adjusted her seat. “And I’m drunk.”
“We have to go another route.”
“Pardon?”
Roger abruptly grabbed her shoulders and flipped her over on her back like a doll.
“Cut it out,” Judy said. “That isn’t what I want.”
Roger got into position. “Let’s get this over with.”
•
Iris wondered what paradise she had stumbled into and how she went from pinging to ponging with this foreign wonder boy. All ideas of how she would feel after a first kiss went out the window and far, far away. This was Cinderella, a fairy tale, and Iris only stopped kissing when she heard a semi-familiar voice from below deck.
Rafe looked at her like she was crazy.
“What is it?” he asked.
Iris listened to the night, didn’t hear anything more, so she said, “Nothing, I thought I heard—” and was all set to pucker up exactly where they left off but then realized, “Hey, wait a seco
nd. You just spoke English.”
“Did I?” Rafe blushed, then flashed his charming smile. “My bad.”
She pulled back and away. “You aren’t Finnish?”
“We’re from Tacoma.” Rafe didn’t really look apologetic, more like caught and was just having fun with her, teasing. She hated teasing.
“That pisses me off,” she told him.
“Well, I’m sorry but—” Rafe started to say but Iris punched him in the stomach—a full-on whack that almost doubled him over.
Anger passing but heaving deep breaths, Iris heard the voice again, down below, maybe not far. It sounded like—her mother. “Roger, stop!” Iris thought her mom said.
Then: “STOP!”
•
Coming through her back door, hoping to finally get release, Roger pumped with the same furious action in Judy’s ass—tight as a drum.
“God I hate this,” she said, desperate. “Please—”
“I’m close,” he said, then realized he wasn’t and stopped for a moment. “Maybe a blow job?”
“Covered in fudge? I don’t think so,” Judy replied.
“But I have to come... I have to—”
“Get the fuck off me,” Judy said, body moving north, escaping his pull as the long, hard cock slipped out.
“What can I do? This is serious,” Roger said.
“Find a doctor,” Judy advised. “I’m done. I’m leaving.”
She moved to the edge of the bed and began to get dressed. Roger was looking down at his erection in awe, then he shook his head and his eyes narrowed, his jaw set tight.
“This is all your fault,” he told her. “You’re a lousy fuck.”
This news stopped her cold and Judy glared at him.
“Screw you,” she said at the door. “If you can.”
•
Iris was steaming mad as she clomped down the stairs, muttering “Boys really suck. Just Pigs. They lie to get whatever it is they want? Is that fair? Well, not with this girl. Not with Iris Perry. The truth is— the truth is—”
She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, looked down the hall, and shook her head.
Damn, she didn’t know. Truth was illusive. Iris was hurt, yeah, but hey, get to the center of it, that was fun. Kissing Rafe, him kissing back like he loved her, adored her, would take a bullet for her, this thrilling sensation should not go away. It must be recreated soon.
Maybe not with Rafe but with someone, because, who knows, it might be Iris’s destiny to become the greatest kisser in modern history, eclipsing even the noted stars.
Eat that, Rebecca Chase—you slut.
Still, Iris’s conclusion, based on recent research, was simple: Kissing is coolness.
But why did Rafe try to deceive her? Just say you’re from Tacoma. Not the worst place to be from. Not like Finland was any better—
Then, interrupted thoughts: a noise or six. Slaps and pops and ow’s and moans and stop that and “You’re a lousy fuck”— and then, no sound. Iris listened to doors, hoping to find the source. Not this one, not that one—
A cabin door swung open and her mother stumbled out.
Iris, shocked, said, “Mom, my God, what happened to your makeup?”
32. Final Rest
Funny how it happened. Leo Tabor, rich beyond rich, was often asked how he made his fortune and he parroted a famous quote from a long-dead senator when he replied, “Make a million here, a million there, pretty soon you’ve got a crapload of cash.”
But the real reason Leo Tabor’s name was in the lower quarter of the Fortune 100 list was purely out of revenge. Neither proud nor ashamed of this, Leo used the memory of ex-wife Lucia’s betrayal as a gauge of success. The more he made, the deeper her anguish. He could imagine the devious replacement husband, Dr. Raul, now being the one not to measure up; Lucia hopefully stymied by a bank balance flatlined at Not Enough.
Never enough for Lucia, for whom fur coats were bought with petty cash; Maseratis were not a luxury but an economy car. She loved mansions, used to drive by the big ones in Portland’s west hills, saying one day, one day… never enough floor space, garage space or yard space. And, thus, never enough for Lucia via Leo.
The ice-cold dessert of vengeance? Money money money.
Buy a business, build a business, sell a business.
Just business.
And all for Lucia.
So when the world collapsed and Leo lost every penny, Tabor’s foremost thoughts were not about dollar signs but about his kids. He wished them well, despite their utter disregard for him as a father or a person, and their absolute love of his sterling Amex card with the near unlimited credit ceiling. But overriding that was the thought that Lucia, if she survived, was a pauper.
Welcome to the barrio, senorita.
Leo gave her a week before she’d take poison or jump off a cliff.
Unlike Lucia, Leo could live without mansions and cars and private jets, but what he couldn’t live without was fresh water. The lake was now far away and his canteen was down to the last drop.
Hungry. Thirsty. Exhausted. Having trouble with his intestines, Leo kept walking.
Over the days, Leo logged the miles by the number of bunions and blisters on his feet, ascending one hill only to find another. The lake was enormous and the terrain was also blistered by toppled trees, landslides and muck, making the journey harder.
But Tabor had always used his off-time, away from meetings and more meetings, to explore the woods. Leo owned a cabin (some cabin—seven thousand square feet, designed by Frank Gehry) but he often wandered closer to home, in the Washington Cascades or down in the Rogue River area to the far south of Oregon. Leo almost never went with others, figuring his six-to-nine was more than enough time to get business done.
Plus, people could really get on his nerves.
This was, in its own perverse way, better. How long he could survive was anyone’s guess, but Leo was holding up pretty well. Spirits not soaring but steady, he walked up one hill until he reached the summit.
His eyes strained. It looked like there was some kind of roof over the next hill or two.
Leo was excited. Yes, he liked roughing it but this was getting pretty extreme. Cold, damp, no bed, nothing but his clothing. He’d taken a jacket but was in shorts and his legs were freezing.
He began walking down a long hill, slipping often, until he heard a sound.
It sounded like—
Grunts.
•
The corpses were patiently waiting as Russ stood at the gate. Looking out at the dead beyond, he knew it would be a daunting if not thankless task to bury them. Trying several keys, he found the one that unlocked the gate and stepped through.
Russ scanned the terrain. Beside the road, ten feet to the south, was a clearing of sorts. What had been a grove of young trees had been uprooted and washed away by the flood. It seemed a suitable place to start.
Russ walked to the first body he found, started to lift it but found he couldn’t get a solid grip. Rigor mortis had long set out and the big guy was now softened. The corpse’s arms were raised up and the only way to move the once linebacker-sized body was to drag it. It took maybe fifteen minutes to pull the man from the trees to the field and Russ was sweating pig-like when he finished.
The shovel was too small, more for gardening than digging a cemetery. Russ needed a shovel with a larger head and remembered seeing one in a Chevy truck nearby and retrieved it. Solid, with a good grip, he used it to bury the next person.
Perry laid the dead man on the ground, then reached into the man’s back pocket and found that his wallet was still there, secured by a buttoned flap. Inside, a Washington state driver’s license bearing the name Patrick William Densmore, fifty-two years old. He had lived on Maple Drive in Tacoma. His business card showed he’d worked for the Puget Sound Canning Company as a quality control specialist. Densmore carried a family picture of a wife and three boys, ranging in age from three to about fifteen.
&n
bsp; Russell outlined a grave with the tip of the big shovel. He wasn’t sure if Densmore’s family had been with him when the flood hit, but he marked four potential sites for them as well. Using Densmore’s large frame as a guide, he drew the outlines of other grave sites.
Perry removed his shirt and began to dig the first hole. When the grave was large enough, Russ attempted to slide the body in gently, but it fell on its side with a thump. He said a silent prayer for the man and hoped his eulogy sufficed.
Russ tried to move another body, this time a woman, middle-aged and plump, but after ten fruitless minutes of attempting to budge the corpulent corpse, Perry sat down hard on the ground.
“What the hell am I doing?” Russell said aloud. He gathered up some pebbles in his hands and threw them idly into the woods. For a long time, he simply sat in the sun, his body appreciating the heat. He was sweating hard and took short pulls off a bottle of warm Gatorade.
Finally, Russ stood up, clasped his hands together and rubbed them, then went for another go at moving the deceased woman. He was straining, her dead weight getting the best of him, when Russ heard a rustling noise behind him and before he could turn, someone emerged from the woods.
“Death don’t make them lighter, does it?” a man’s voice wondered. “At this rate, you’ll finish by winter.”
Perry turned and saw a late-middle-aged, stocky man with the beginnings of a beard, wearing a filthy work shirt and khaki shorts, standing by the trees, grinning at him.
“Need help?” the man asked. “It doesn’t look like she weighs much more than a Chrysler.”
“I could use a hand,” Russ grinned back.
At that, the man began to applaud. “It’s been awhile since I could use that joke.”
“It never gets old” They shook hands. “Russ Perry.”
Russ handed him the big shovel.
“Leo Tabor,” the man replied. “Let’s bury her.”
Later, Leo wiped the sweat from his brow, and reached for the bottle. “Tell me why we’re doing this again? Are these people all your family?”